


Seconds

by harble



Series: Intervals [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Arthur is a Sadboi (TM), Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Slurs, smut then plot then porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 15:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18236924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harble/pseuds/harble
Summary: Arthur and John meet up away from camp.This is set sometime before canon, probably around 1893-4. This is a prequel to my first story, Thirds. You don't necessarily have to read that one first, but I think it adds helpful context to it.





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur heard a horse approach outside his tent, but he didn’t bother to draw his pistol or even look through the flap to see who approached. He knew who it was, and the quiet whispers (“There, Old Boy”) only confirmed. He kept his nose in his journal, even while the flap of the small tent opened and John Marston peered his head inside.

“You was supposed t’be here half a day ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry princess, didn’t realize you had such a tight schedule.”

Arthur’s jumbled thoughts sharpened to a point, and he glared up at John. He looked nervous but not truly penitent, black hair hanging in his face and a smug glint in his eyes.

“Ok, what do you want me to say? Hosea caught me as I was leavin’ and asked me to help him with a job.”

Arthur let out a deep grumble and turned back to writing in his journal. John was frozen in place, hunched over and halfway through the tent flap. He sank to his knees with a dramatic huff and swayed for a moment like he was going to topple completely over onto the bedroll in front of Arthur. Instead, he lunged at him, grabbing the journal and tossing it into the corner before reaching for the other man’s neck and tugging, hard.

Arthur let it happened quickly, like he knew John liked it. First, they were leaned over in awkward positions, barely able to meet for the angles. They readjusted wordlessly, both familiar enough to know what needed to happen. Arthur extended his legs and propped up an arm to keep sitting up; John straddled his lap, knees on either side of his hips, without breaking their string of kisses. Arthur threw John’s hat away and grasped him by the hair roughly. Maybe a little too roughly. John made a faint noise of pain into their kiss, but continued to unbutton Arthur’s shirt and union suit anyway.

Dimly, through the pounding in his veins, Arthur registered that John was wet. He must have ridden through a rainstorm - he smelled like it. Arthur leaned forward to push his mouth into his neck and breathe deeply. The scent was too good. He opened his mouth and licked, then sucked at it hard enough to leave a mark, just under where black stubble started to grow. John didn’t protest, but let out a soft groan as he pushed Arthur’s suspenders and shirts off and ran his hands across smooth, exposed shoulders.

John tugged his own shirt off with a little effort; the wet made it stick to his skin and Arthur had to help him get it all the way off his long arms. John started to laugh as he finally flicked his right sleeve off his arm and leaned down to kiss at Arthur’s neck and shoulders, still panting slightly from the effort. Arthur allowed his free hand to skate down the skinny torso, around to John’s back, feeling the muscles there. John bit at his shoulder, a little too hard to be considered playful; Arthur exhaled in surprise, then reach down to John’s ass, which he gave a quick warning smack, mostly to make John smile.

John did smile - and arch his back suggestively, closing his eyes, tilting his head upwards, and grinding up and down a little on the larger man’s lap. Arthur shut his eyes at the sensation and allowed a short moan to escape his lips. A tug pulled deep in his stomach; he was already aching through his jeans. He grabbed at John’s waist and ran his thumb teasingly against tensed muscles. John lengthened his movements, lifting himself up, dragging his hips and the hardness between them against the skin of Arthur’s stomach, then catching brief, open kisses as he landed back down. 

Arthur let his head fall back, let his mind explore the idea of John bouncing on his lap like this naked - flushed and panting. Muscles tensing and relaxing in waves. John moaning something that sounded half like Arthur’s name, half like pleading. John’s cock rubbing between them in the motions, and his own cock…

_No_. 

He chased the thought from his mind and snapped his head back up to look at John. The soft patter of rain began on the tent over their heads. John raised himself to kneeling and rested his hands on either side of Arthur’s face. He hung above Arthur a second too long, smoothing the stubble with his thumbs, one side of his mouth pulling into a half smile; for all the world, he looked like he was admiring him, scars and scruff and all. 

Arthur broke the eye contact, searching for something, anything else to look at. His eyes landed on his journal, lying open, pages down on the soft grass. He could picture what he had written there, alone and vulnerable, while waiting for John.

_I know it is no good. I know he is too young and does not know what he wants. But when he asks me to meet him out here, in the middle of goddamn nowhere, I still come, and wait, and wait. For what? To be dragged off to hell, where I belong?_

Arthur moved his hand to John’s chest with the thought of pushing him away, but instead tipped him gently over onto the bedroll. He felt weak. Too weak to stop it. He watched John readjust on the thin cushion and smile up at him. Hands wandering to John’s waistband, Arthur leaned down to catch his mouth again, keep him busy so he would stop looking at him, when John reached out a hand towards him, dragged his fingertips down his neck and chest roughly, and rasped out, “Fuck me.”

Arthur blushed and sat back on his heels as if John had struck him. “Wha - what d’you think I’m doing right now, Marston?”

“No,” John whined, “I mean, fuck me.”

He parted his legs and bucked his hips a little in an apparent attempt to show, as telling clearly wasn’t getting the point across.

Arthur’s eyes widened and he swallowed thickly. Had John read his mind?

“I - I…” Arthur shivered a bit. “No. John, no. I don’t want to.”

John’s face twisted. “What do you mean?” The rain fell harder. Water dripped in through the canvas and landed with small splashes between them. John looked hurt, Arthur realized, and it sent a shot of pain through his torso. “Spit it out, then.”

Arthur still didn’t meet his eye fully. He balled his hands into fists. His mind raced for the right answer, but nothing came. He settled for looking at the ground and mumbling, “I thought we should keep things slow. For your sake.”

John just watched him, clearly waiting for more, but none came.

“Slow? For me?” John almost yelled, which surprised Arthur even more. He shied away and stood up, forgetting where they were, and bumped into the canvas overhead. John still laid below him, shirtless and scowling.

“What do you think of me as, Morgan?” John was spitting now, flared up and ready to fight. He propped himself up on his arm and narrowed his eyes as Arthur sank to the floor, avoiding his gaze, “Do you think of me as a woman, Morgan, is that it? Lookin’ to protect my honor?”

The meanness of John’s glare, rather than making him shrink further, provoked him. He wanted to pull a trigger, to wrap his hands around something and squeeze.  


“I thought I weren’t supposed to talk about it, John. Ain’t that what you told me after the first time?” John’s face froze. “You goddamned child.”

Arthur said it because he knew it would sting. He always knew what would hurt John.

In this case though, he was surprised to see John scramble to a kneeling position, grab his wet shirt from the tent floor, and dive out the flap into the now pouring rain. John didn’t usually run from a fight.

“Marston! Marston, get back here!”

But he didn’t. Arthur shifted himself onto the bedroll and heaved a sigh. He listened for the sounds of John mounting Old Boy and riding off, but they didn’t come. That, at least, was a good sign.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat a few short feet from the tent, in front of what had been a campfire before the storm blew in. He had a funny feeling this was the very storm he raced through on his way to meet Arthur, and it just caught up to him again.

_Typical._

He had ridden through the storm, hard, worried that Arthur had left, half expecting to find an empty clearing and the smoldering embers of an abandoned campfire when he arrived. Only to get here and get… whatever just happened in there. He glanced at the tent and saw the sole of one of Arthur’s boots poking out of the flap. He must have laid down. Knowing Arthur, he was probably snoring already.

John’s hat was there in the tent with Arthur - no option of going back in - so he resigned himself to pulling on his already wet shirt and crossing his arms over his chest as rain soaked him and dripped from his hair onto his face. He waited out the storm like that, scowl carved into his brow.

As his anger slowly faded, something like hurt replaced it, and he wondered why he didn’t just leave. Leave and let this thing with Arthur - whatever it was - end for good. John had started it, after all. Might as well be him that ended it. 

He was about to stand when the rain lightened up and he saw Arthur stir, the boot disappearing again behind the canvas. He wished (not even nearly for the first time) he knew what that man was thinking - what he was scribbling about in that damn journal.

The rain slowed to a drip, and John crouched to get the fire started again. He didn’t look up when he heard steps behind him. He decided, rather stubbornly, to let Arthur have the first word.

But Arthur just stood for several seconds, apparently happy to watch him struggle with the kindling and fire starter. John heard him light a cigarette.

“They’re soaked through, Johnny.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

John felt Arthur nudge his hip with his boot. “I saw the storm coming before you got here and wrapped some wood and kindling.” He prodded him again. “Try this.”

John reluctantly turned around, still kneeling, and snatched the small bundle from Arthur. He was shirtless, union suit and suspenders hanging from his hips, jeans mostly dry and his hat on to protect from the last of the rain. He looked like a vision, John thought, and it made him still more sour.

The new wood lit (of course), and John stood up and crossed back to his log without so much as glancing at Arthur. He sat and hung his head. The sun suddenly arrived, summer afternoon light spilling through the clouds onto the damp ground and John’s skin.

“Hey John.” He stubbornly didn’t look up. “John.” John watched Arthur sit next to him out of the corner of his eye. The other man took a deep breath in. “I’m sorry.”

Just like Arthur - always apologizing. John met his eyes. Blue, very blue, and looking concerned. John whispered, “what is happening?”

“What d’you mean?”

“What are we doing?”

“Oh, are we allowed to talk about this now?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. After thumbing his hat and taking a deep drag from the cigarette, Arthur continued without waiting for a response. “I think we’re messin’ around.” He broke from John’s gaze and studied the ground between his feet. “And now I guess we’re fightin’.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“You seemed pretty keen on it earlier.” He motioned toward the tent.

“You said I was a child.”

“I do worry,” he blurted out, “worry that you’re young. That this ain’t the right thing.”

Arthur looked like he had surprised himself, and John smiled slightly as he leaned his elbows onto his knees. The right thing… no, he didn’t suppose two men going at it like they did would be considered the right thing by any decent person. Arthur made him so hard he didn’t usually pause to care.

“Well stop your worrying, Morgan. It ain’t the right thing, but that’s fine by me. And I ain’t been a kid for a while.”

That made Arthur smile cautiously in return. “Okay. I guess that’s true.” Arthur stretched and scratched at the back of his neck. John watched the red bite mark on his shoulder contort as he moved. He thought briefly on putting those all over him, what that might look like, what Arthur might _sound_ like as he did it. Arthur sighed. “I’ll stop talkin’ about it now.”

Awkward silence fell.

“I shouldn’t rightly have said that,” John mumbled. Arthur just looked at him with his head cocked. John sighed and went on. “That night after the train job in Clovis. The first time. I shouldn’t have said not to talk about it. This keeps happening… it’s been a few months. I guess what I’m saying is that we should be able to talk about it. If you want.”

John should have known what it would do to Arthur, months with all those thoughts in his head and nowhere to put them except his little book. For John, if he wasn’t talking about it, he wasn’t thinking too hard about it. But it was a bad rule to give a man like Arthur. Better to have it out.

Arthur grunted in understanding and put a large hand on John’s shoulder. He smiled again, and John felt warmer. “Come on, you’re still all wet. Let’s go sit on the edge over there. The light is better. Maybe you’ll finally dry out.”

“Put a shirt on first.” It was hard to look at him full on all bare like that, like looking straight into the sun.

Arthur swatted a hand at him dismissively. “You ain’t doing much better. Yeh didn’t even button yours.”

John looked down and saw he was right, but didn’t relent.

“Go on. Ain’t gonna sit with a naked man on a cliff.” That got Arthur to laugh again as he stood up and bounded over to the tent. He thought he heard Arthur mutter “prude” as he ducked in.

John felt lightheaded as he stood. The sun, the warmth, the mood - everything had changed so suddenly. Their camp was in a nice spot, one of John’s favorites, far away from roads, near the edge of a small cliff that fell away to a nice northern-facing view of the valley below. The clearing was otherwise surrounded by dense fir woods. Privacy - or the closest thing the wilderness had to privacy - with a view. John sat on the edge of the cliff and let his knees dangle off. He started to button his shirt, but stopped half way, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his chest.

Arthur approached and sat down on his right. Instead of a proper shirt he had buttoned his union suit back up most of the way, and in one hand he carried his journal, in the other he had a bottle of whiskey. He handed the latter to John.

“Jesus, Arthur, what time is it? I thought you gave up heavy drinking.”

Arthur pushed him gently on the shoulder and said, “It’s about 5:30 judging by the sun. And,” he motioned for John to open the bottle, “I thought we could use a little loosening up.”

John uncorked it and took a short sip. The burning in his throat felt almost nice after so much shivery dampness. He glanced over to see Arthur crack his journal gingerly on his lap and turn quickly to a set of facing blank pages. He thought for a moment before sketching in the rough outlines of the valley below.

John took another swig, larger this time. He was happy to sit in silence and watch him work for a while, half-afraid of what either of them might say, given the opportunity. Arthur screwed up his face in concentration, adding rolling hills that grew into mountains to match the landscape.

“You need a haircut. You’re starting to look like me.” Arthur grunted. John hesitantly reached a hand up and pet down Arthur’s hair hanging below his hat and tugged lightly. The strands hung past his ears. Arthur smiled but didn’t look away from the paper.

“Wouldn’t want that, now would we?” 

John took the rib in silence and sprawled onto the ground with his hands behind his head. The late afternoon sun was still bright, and it had already begun to dry his clothes. He closed his eyes as Arthur scooted closer so their thighs touched.

Arthur reached across him and grabbed the whiskey. He drank a quarter of the bottle in a couple of swigs, stroked John’s leg slowly for a while, then went back to his journal. John willed himself to relax in the sunshine.

“I think I lied to you in there.” Arthur’s pained tone surprised John out of the daydream he was drifting into. Arthur let a couple seconds pass and glanced over to meet John’s eyes. “I said we were going slow on account a’ you.”

John tried not to blush from the small burst of shame in his chest. They had been going slow - kissing and touching mostly, though the touching had proved to be quite enough for both of them to finish satisfied so far. The last time they had been together (seventeen days ago, in an abandoned cabin they found while scouting), Arthur had knelt in front of him and used his _mouth_ , which John didn’t think he’d ever get over - the pleasure, or the sight of Arthur on his knees.

“I like it, the goin’ slow. It’s for my sake, is I guess what I’m sayin’.” John still didn’t say anything. Sometimes it was best to wait for Arthur to get it all out. “I’ve never had nobody go slow with me before.”

John sat up and studied the look of embarrassment on Arthur’s face. He looked good, even like that.

“You know what? Me neither.”

Arthur smiled a little.

“Bullshit, Marston, you ain’t never _let_ anyone go slow with you.”

“Sure, maybe,” he put up his hands in surrender, “but that don’t change the fact that it’s never happened.”

“Go on, take your nap. I’ve said my piece.” Arthur pushed him with a finger to his breastbone, and John went down without resistance. He closed his eyes again, concentrating on the rub of Arthur’s thigh against his own.

When he opened them again, the whiskey was well over half gone, the sun was sinking lower in the sky, and Arthur was humming softly to himself. John sat up and grabbed the bottle, took a swallow, and placed it pointedly on his left, away from Arthur.

“No more for you, Morgan. When you get drunk you want a fight, and there’s no one here to brawl with save me.”

“Good morning to you too.”

John grumbled a bit in reply and flipped over. His front half was dry, but the back of his body was still wet from the rain. Arthur just laughed.

“Don’t get any ideas. I rode through the rain for you. Now I’m all wet.”

“Then you sat in the rain for absolutely no reason.”

John crossed his arms under his face and rested there.

Arthur broke the silence again. “Things at camp’ve been good lately.”

“It’s always nice to have more ladies around.”

“Abigail seems to like you best.” There was no meanness in the comment, just curiosity.

John smiled a little and thought of her, all crossed arms, dark brows, and flushed cheeks. “Yeah I think she does. I reckon it’s because I haven’t tried to fuck her yet.”

“Yeh - that’ll do it.” John could almost feel the word _yet_ rolling around in Arthur’s skull. “She seems a fine woman. And almost as hot-headed as you are.”

“As fine as a whore can be, I’d guess.”

Arthur pushed him on the thigh with his knuckles. “Don’t say that. Your soul’s in no better state.”

“What do you care what I think?”

“We ain’t in no spot to judge, John-boy.”

“You sound like Hosea.”

“Good, I mean to.”

John huffed, then smiled in spite of himself. “We ever gonna go an hour without fighting?”

Arthur shook his head and murmured, “You know, I thought the kissin’ might help, but I think it’s actually made it worse.”

That shut John up for a while, until his curiosity got the better of him.

“If she’s so fine why don’t you fuck her? Haven’t seen you hang around her tent.”

“You been watchin’ me?”

“Maybe.”

He shook his sandy head. “I ain’t no good for her.”

He didn’t finish the thought, but John knew what he was thinking, could hear plain as if he had spoken it aloud: _I ain’t no good for you neither._ John reached a hand out and grabbed at Arthur’sside.

Arthur cut back in. “She is a real pretty one, though.”

“Did you see her yelling at Javi the other night? I could have hauled her over my shoulder right then.”

“Only you would think fightin’ attractive.” John just grunted, still remembering the way her face looked in the firelight, angry and animated. Arthur rubbed at his mouth. “I just like to watch her all bent over.”

John grinned at that, unable to stop himself from imagining how it might look for Arthur to grab her from behind, kiss her neck, take her as his own. He’d be gentle with women, John bet. Slow and demanding and dominant. He could feel himself growing hard against the ground just to think it.

_Lord, if I ain’t the crookedest pervert ever born._

“You never go with the gang women,” he mumbled, seeking distraction from his thoughts.

“Was that a question, Marston?”

“I guess.”

“I ain’t never fucked a gang member. Not ’til now.” John heard a smile in his voice.

He thought for a moment. “Not even Rose?” A more eager slut he had never met. She had been John's very first, and second, and several after that. He was sixteen then, and not one for moderation.

Arthur chuckled. “Nah, not even Rose.”

They talked like that for a while, the low sun warming John’s back and Arthur slowly scratching at his journal, adding details to his sketch until he was satisfied. It felt very near to heaven to John, as his head buzzed pleasantly from the liquor, and he and Arthur joked and argued like they always had. Like always - but with a new edge to it, a threat and a promise that sent chills up his spine when he thought too long on it. The small touches were new too; far too affectionate and gentle to have any real place in their life. 

It also felt like a fantasy, liable to vanish at any moment. But then good things always felt like that to him.

After a while, John pushed himself up to sit next to Arthur and reached down carefully for the journal, half-afraid Arthur might throw him off the cliff for prying. But the large hands loosened, and John brought the book to his lap, admiring.

On the page was a cheery, sketched rendering of their little valley view, complete with two figures, drawn in the foreground in shady black, one with a hat, and one without. Only their backs showed, but John knew which was which - Arthur broad and hunched over, as if writing something, John skinny and leaning on his arm, head splayed a bit to one side, messy hair hanging. He had even caught the small storm moving across the valley away from them.

“How do you do this?” Arthur just shrugged and took off his hat. Hair fell in his eyes, and he looked almost scared for a moment.

What could Arthur Morgan be frightened of? His eyes fell to the ground like they so often did, and he kicked his leg out over the drop of the cliff.

“John… you ever done this before? With a man?”

John didn’t let himself think about the answer before it left his lips. “No. But I’ve known I was this way for a while. Forever, I guess. Just never gave it too much thought.” Arthur didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just nodded. “Have you? With men, I mean?”

Arthur nodded again, this time with a small hesitation. “Some.”

John had figured as much. He quickly decided not to ask any more about that. Better to leave some things unknown, at least for now. He watched with an eyebrow cocked as Arthur hooked a finger where his shirt opened, halfway up his chest, and tugged John in for a kiss. It was shallow and (dare he even think it?) sweet, without much behind it. 

After a few seconds, John pulled away and shook his head. He smiled, a little dazed.

Arthur lunged for the whiskey bottle while John was distracted. They emptied that one after John chased Arthur around a bit trying to get it back, and, when Arthur pulled a desolate face after that bottle was drained, John produced another one from his saddlebag with a flourish. 

A couple of hours later, they sat on the log next to the fire, trying to stay warm as night and an unseasonable chill fell around them. Their hands were wandering now; one of John’s had found its way to Arthur’s thigh and was rubbing slowly across it, back and forth. The heft of him was enough to knock his breath out. Arthur had him by the small of the waist with both hands. He seemed to like John’s waist. His hands often drifted that way.

He watched Arthur reach for the bottle and tip his head back. His throat moved in a way that made John a bit distracted.

“Hey, that’s enough. If you pass out I won’t be able to drag you to the tent. You’re too heavy.”

Arthur handed the bottle over with a wink. John drank more before putting it on the ground. He could feel his the edges of his vision growing fuzzy and his cheeks going from pleasantly warm to burning hot.

Arthur was looking at where John’s shirt dipped low on his chest. It reminded John of that night in Clovis at the saloon - the night they had started all this mess together. He bit his lip and decided to ask what had been on his mind since their fight in the tent, and maybe for a while before that, if he was being honest.

“Why do you always act so guilty after we're together… like you don’t like it. Don’t want it.”

Arthur looked at him, stricken.

“It ain’t that, John.”

He looked back at Arthur suspiciously, but the blue eyes didn’t drop, for once.

“Please, please believe me. It ain’t that.” Large hands gripped tighter at his waist. “I’ll… try to be better.”

Even drunk, John knew part of what Arthur couldn’t bring himself to say. Life hadn’t been kind to Arthur, and people hadn’t neither. He was hurt, somewhere deep. John knew some of the details.

“’S okay.” John pet at his leg. Arthur didn’t speak as John took another drink. They listened to the cicadas for a while. John watched how Arthur’s frame strained against his shirt as he inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a sigh.

“What was it like in the gang before I was there?” John asked, hoping to break the tension. His words slurred together. Maybe he was a little farther gone than he thought.

“Peaceful.” Arthur laughed heartily at his own joke, crinkling the small lines around his eyes. Those were new, John realized. He reached up to touch them.

“Come on, please tell me.” A stroke around the eyes.

“I’ve told you before.” Then across the cheek; Arthur leaned in to his hand a bit.

“Tell me again.” Down to his jaw, to his chin, the scar there, the stubble. Arthur’s mouth quirked into a small smile, and John dropped his hand.

“We used to have a few low-lifes drifting in and out, but for the majority of the time, it was just me and Hosea and Dutch.” He wiped at his mouth. “Dutch is a bit of a… big personality to be cooped up with. Imagine, no girl to distract him, no crowd to preach tah.”

His accent grew heavier when he drank, the ends of the words getting lost and vowels elongating wildly. And he never spoke so openly about Dutch.

“Then there was Hosea, so much younger then, and still full a’ anger. He’s lost most a’ that, now. I think I like him better this way." Arthur reached out and brushed a light hand across his collarbone. "But we all loved each other. As a family, I’d guess. ‘Cept we killed a lotta people.”

“You’ve been with the gang what… twelve years?”

Arthur shook his head, and John reached back up to touch his neck lightly, to feel the vibrations as he talked. “I think I was fourteen or fifteen when Dutch found me, and I’m thirty, near as I can figure.”

“That’ll make it most of your life, now.”

Arthur just looked at him, a little struck by that.

“I suppose so.”

They kissed again then, John leaning into Arthur’s warm chest, still stroking his thigh, Arthur’s fingers combing through John’s hair. John opened his mouth first, let Arthur taste the whiskey on his tongue, and rewarded him with a small groan when he opened his as well. Arthur was the first to pull away, eyes half closed, and he leaned his head onto John’s shoulder, nuzzling into the skin of his neck and breathing deeply. John felt an unfamiliar, warm tug behind his collarbone and deep in his stomach. Something a lot like safety, and happiness. He brushed his finger’s through Arthur’s hair and listened to the small sigh he let out in response.

Eventually, John let Arthur drain the bottle, and supported him on his way to the tent. Arthur collapsed on his bedroll, happily drunk, while John made up camp for the night and spread out his own roll next to Arthur. John kicked off his boots and pulled Arthur’s off for him before spreading a thin blanket over the both of them. It barely reached, but combined with their body heat, it kept out the chilly air well enough.

He stretched out to sleep on his back, enjoying the feeling of Arthur’s limp arm next to him.

“I think you’re the second.” Arthurs voice made him jump; he had assumed that the other man was already asleep.

“What d’yah mean Morgan?”

“I think you’re the second person I’ve ever really known, yah know?” His words trailed off, and John thought he might have drifted off mid-sentence. 

Arthur spoke again, his voice gravelly. “Known, in every way a person can.”

Intimacy. He meant intimacy. John decided not to mention the word. It felt too heavy and important to name just then. 

He didn’t have to ask who the first was. He thought of the picture on Arthur’s bedside at camp, of the pretty, fragile woman he had met a couple of times.

“Yeah, well I think you might be my first.”

A drunken giggle, then a hiccup. “That’s pretty shit luck, Marston.”

But before John could defend himself, Arthur turned onto his side away from John and started to snore almost immediately. John looped an arm around his waist, snuggling into the large, warm back, and tried to get to sleep as well. The morning couldn’t come soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur woke up to bird song, to soft sunlight filtering through canvas, and to John Marston unbuttoning the clasp on his jeans. He blinked a few times and instinctively reached up for his forehead - his head was pounding.

“John. John. Stop that.” John glared up at him from his crotch, but kept fumbling at his clothes anyway. “John, I feel like roasted shit, stop that now.”

He heard a chuckle, but John didn’t stop. The jeans were open, and he palmed Arthur first through the soft fabric of his union suit before popping the buttons with a certain relish.

“John st-“ but it dissolved into a strangled sound in his throat when John started to place soft kisses on his stomach and thighs. He was kneeling between Arthur’s legs, hands reaching up to continue unbuttoning, mouth brushing, feather-light, tickling hairs and making him shiver.

“I told you,” a kiss to his hip bone, “to stop drinking,” his nose dragged up towards his rib cage, “but you never listen to me.”

“Course I don’t listen to a boy when he tells me how to drink whiskey.” His voice was gruff with sleep, but playful. John’s hands smoothed along his bare torso, and his head travelled lower.

“I weren’t telling you how, I was telling you how much.”

Arthur never formed a reply. John took his half-hard dick into his mouth and sucked experimentally. Arthur let out a sigh.

“Jesus, Marston.”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands - knew that John had never done this before. Didn’t want to overwhelm him. A faint, delicious sort of shame colored his cheeks even as he felt himself grow heavy and hard against John’s tongue.

John let Arthur fall out of his mouth and took him quickly in hand; his eyes met Arthur’s. He had spit shining on his lips and chin, and he looked about as pretty as Arthur had ever seen. “Show me. How you were doin’ it the other day.” John’s free hand reached for one of Arthur’s and brought it to his hair, still messy from sleep.

That there was almost enough to make Arthur come off already - John pleading and compliant with wide, hungry eyes. He groaned in surrender and grabbed a chunk of John’s hair.

“It ain’t difficult.”

He watched John take him into his mouth again and felt the younger man groan a little around his cock. Arthur held him there for a moment, only the very tip past his lips, before slowly pushing him lower.

“Just,” halfway down, he pulled him all the way off and looked him in the eye seriously, “don’t use your teeth.” He pushed him back down, groaning as he felt soft lips part around him. He let John sink lower this time, feeling the way his jaw strained.

“Mmmm. Relax, sweetheart.”

Something - the pet name, Arthur suspected - made John moan and rock his own hips a bit.

“That’s it. You ain’t gotta take all of me.” John pushed further down still. “Not this time anyway.”

Arthur reached down with his free hand to touch his face - the eyes clenched in concentration, the smooth, high cheekbones, and the short, rough stubble. He fingered at the corners of his mouth, stretched and wet, and stroked the base of his cock beneath.

“Perfect,” he murmured as John began to bob up and down on his own, “perfect, darlin’.”

John gagged a little trying to get the last of Arthur in. But he didn’t pull up. Arthur threaded both hands through his hair and held him there, listening to him breath slowly through his nose.

“Okay, a little faster now. And if you get tired - ah, yes - just use your hand on what you can’t reach.” He pulled him up and down more quickly, and, despite himself, his hips rocked a bit to meet the motions, trying to chase the wetness, the soft pull of John’s tongue and throat. John reached a hand (trembling - was that a bad sign?) to cup at his balls, then grasp the base. He set his own rhythm, and Arthur’s hands left his hair.

John sped up, and his hand twisted and pumped at whatever his mouth left. Arthur felt something building deep in his stomach, low and warm and fiery. The slide of lips and tongue, mixed with John's whimpers and gasps - Arthur hadn't felt or seen or heard anything so fucking good in a long time. His hips snapped more forcefully, but rather than backing off, it seemed to drive John faster, deeper. Sloppy, but wonderful.

“Fuck.” It took Arthur a hazy few seconds to realize it had been him that said it. He was close, and too far gone to care about his noises. John popped off him, meeting his gaze, hand still stroking. Arthur whined.

“You’re right.” John smiled. It would have been coy, if his lips weren’t puffy and slick and his face weren’t so close to Arthur’s dick. “This ain’t difficult.” He held Arthur’s gaze as he reached out his tongue and played at the tip until Arthur gasped and squirmed. “Now,” he said thickly, “how does it taste at the end? I’ve been wanting to know.”

Arthur didn’t reply. He was breathing deeply and rapidly as John sank onto him again.

“Christ, John.” He dragged one hand up his own body and reached the other hand down to grab John’s bobbing head again. “Like that, darlin’, don’t stop.” John made a sloppy, wet sound and started to circle his hips again. “You can touch yourself, you know.”

John did, reaching a hand down to his crotch and still sucking beautifully. Arthur forced him down low and saw John’s other hand move faster. Arthur swore at that, his loudest sound yet.

He drew him up, almost all the way off, then pushed him down again. John gagged, and groaned over him. It was all too much, the pretty eyes flashing, the hot wetness of his mouth, the vibrations around his cock. He forced John down and up a few more frantic times before wrenching him off and moaning, coming in hot pulses on his face and neck.

“Fuck, John. Christ.” Arthur squirmed and keened again with his eyes clenched shut as stuttering pleasure ripped through him again and again. The last wave faded, and he looked down at John, still knelt between his legs, face covered in spend. “Shit, John. I’m sorry. I weren’t meaning to.”

“Don’t apologize.” John smiled, and licked slowly over his bottom lip, catching some of the liquid and drawing it back into his mouth. His hand still stroked himself lazily through his jeans. “I wasn’t kidding about wanting to try it.” Arthur watched him, transfixed. John shivered. “Don’t exactly taste good. You’ll have to make it up to me somehow.”

John leaned down and wiped himself on the sleeve of Arthur’s underclothes, then kissed lightly at Arthur’s jaw, chin, and finally mouth.

“That was a fast one,” Arthur murmured between kisses, “You must be good at that, Marston.”

“Either that or you’re easy.” John smirked, clearly proud of himself.

Arthur shook his head at him, then flipped them over so that he was straddling John’s hips and pinning his wrists on either side of his head. He drew back to look at John, who was panting already, hair in disarray and hips bucking. He still had all his clothes on - that wouldn’t do.

Arthur released his wrists to work quickly at his shirt buttons. It was already untucked, so he pushed at it, and John threw it off quickly. Arthur couldn’t hide his sigh of relief. He loved to see him like this, bare and lean and panting. John was strong and hard - one of the best shots they had, one of the best men to have out with you - but goddamn if his waist didn’t dwindle to almost nothing. Arthur placed heavy hands on his shoulders, feeling their breadth and sinew, dragging down, across his chest, his nipples, his ribs, down to his waist, his hips. Arthur dragged his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, just taking it in.

He glanced up to see John looking a little too pleased.

“Stifle it, John.”

The man just smiled, rather cheekily. “You’re such a fucking queer.”

“I’m not the one who licked seed off his own face this morning.” It didn’t make him stop smiling, but it did shut him up momentarily. Arthur took advantage of the silence and leaned down to kiss him. He nipped at his lips, enjoying the soft sounds that John started to make. His hands still gripping at that waist, he moved his lips to his neck, to the spot he had sucked red the afternoon before. At that, John’s hands shot to the back of Arthur’s head and neck. He was already writhing beneath him, eager, all too eager.

Arthur picked a new spot to mark on the side of his neck, then another near his collarbone. Might as well make it a little while longer before he could go to Abigail or any other woman, might as well mark him as his own, at least for the time.

John was now keening desperately. Arthur hadn’t even touched his dick yet, though he could feel it straining. He rubbed small circles into John’s stomach with his thumbs, playing lower, drifting towards his waistband.

As he undid the clasp there, he straightened up and caught John’s gaze.

“We’re still going slow, Marston.” He started to pull his jeans and drawers off roughly. “But,” he threw them aside and settled back between his legs, forcing them open, “we could try something new. If yah want.”

John’s face was burning red now. He was very exposed, hips open, cock lying hard and leaking on his stomach. He just nodded with hooded eyes. Arthur leaned forward and pushed two fingers into his mouth. He watched how the lips parted easily, remembered how that felt around his dick. It twitched a little between his legs.

“Tell me if I should stop.”

With his other hand he started to softly stroke John, base to tip. John was moaning around his fingers when Arthur drew them slowly out. Keeping eye contact, making sure John was watching what he did, he brought the fingers below his balls, and dragged even lower, gentling circling the puckered flesh there.

John’s eyes widened. He looked for a minute like he wanted to bolt; Arthur paused the motion of both hands.

“We don’t have to.”

John worried at his bottom lip and nodded for Arthur to continue. He started stroking again first, leaning down to take the head of that pretty cock in his mouth and suck. When he felt John’s hips buck, he righted himself, once again watching John’s face as he pushed with his finger, still making small circles. Jesus, it was tight. He got past his second joint before John started to huff a little.

“Shh, darlin’, shh.” Arthur smiled down at him and pushed a little deeper. John looked somehow defiant, like he saw this as a challenge. Arthur finally pushed his finger all the way in, feeling John squeeze and adjust around it. His face relaxed and he shivered slightly.

Arthur’s first time doing this sort of thing hadn’t been near so gentle. He was glad he got to give John something better.

“Arthur.” He was begging for something. Arthur stroked again from base to tip and pumped his finger ever so slightly. “Oh, Arthur.” That one was more of a curse. John reached up his hands to grasp at Arthur’s shoulders, hard enough to hurt. His eyes stared off past him, slightly clouded.

He moved a little faster, feeling the walls slick up with spit and John’s muscles get used to the stretch. John began to move slowly, rocking his hips forward and down, into the motions of both hands at once.

“Oh, please.” It was a whisper, so desperate and needy Arthur could scarce believe it was for him. The slow rocking brought John down at the right angle, and Arthur’s finger barely brushed that spot he had been looking for. John’s eyes widened, and he sighed, “Arthur, fuck, yes. It feels so good,” his back arched off the floor, “You’re so good.”

Arthur felt a blush settle over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. John had never talked while they fucked. He was always plenty loud, moaning and cursing, but this - this was entirely too much. Even as he thought it, John began again, grinding down on his finger and gasping, “Oh, fuck, Arthur, yes please, please. Just like that.”

Arthur slowly drew his finger out, raised the hand to his mouth and rewet both fingers, making sure John was paying attention. He lowered the hand and started slow again, pushing both fingers in.

John relaxed around him. He had gone slightly limp, only his eyes watching Arthur with something that must have been close to adoration. As Arthur fully seated both fingers, John moved a hand from his shoulder to grab at Arthur’s cheek and jaw. He opened his mouth like he was about to speak, then shut it again.

Arthur started to thrust his hand again. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

John groaned a little; he looked completely fucked - eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He bit his lip before whispering, “Arthur, you’re just so goddamn good. Feels good.” His back arched again and he started to fuck down on the fingers. “I don’t know - ugh, fuck me, goddamn.” He took a stuttering breath. “I don’t know how you got so big and so fucking pretty, but - ah - it ain’t fair.”

John looked him straight in the eye as he said it, but Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to look away. He wanted him to keep going, but he didn’t know how to ask. He looked down to see his cock hard again, red and stiff. He caught one of John’s hands, licked the palm, then guided it to John’s cock, now abandoned and pulsing on his stomach.

Arthur took special care to angle his fingers in the right way before thrusting harder back into John’s grinding. At that, John didn’t moan he yelled, and Arthur smiled, a shiver going down his back. He knew what he was feeling

“Tell me.”

“Fuck, Christ, please. Please, it feels so good. You’re fucking perfect.” Arthur reached his free hand down and began to slowly stroke himself. He felt warm all over, watching John thrust down around his fingers, watching his muscles strain and relax, watching as he twisted from side to side, chasing the feeling. John’s strokes on his own dick grew more frantic, and he closed his eyes. “Arthur, shit, please.” His eyes snapped open again and fell on Arthur stroking himself off. He gasped, then moaned as Arthur brushed him again, deep inside. John’s eyes trailed slowly, heavily, up Arthur’s chest, neck, lingered around his mouth, then met his gaze, looking straight through his eyes, into his mind, into his soul, it seemed. “Christ, look at you. Fuck, you’re just so goo…”

His words trailed off into a strangled yell. Arthur’s fingers brushed him just so, and he finished with a loud groan. Spend spattered over his torso. The sight of him, so undone, red in the face, mouth wet and open - that was it for Arthur. He came with a soft hiss and added to the pool on John’s stomach.

Everything was quiet for a few seconds, except for the sounds of both men gasping for air.

John’s eyes were wide, searching his face. “Jesus, Morgan, did you just…?”

“Yeh.” Arthur carefully pulled his fingers out of him, and John whimpered a little. “Been a while since I’ve managed a second.” He chuckled shakily, then landed with a thud next to John.

“I’m a right mess.”

Arthur glanced over, smiling at the graceful curve of his stomach, now quite covered in spend. He reached out a hand to brush at the side of his ribs.

“Yah look good to me.”

“Christ, Arthur, what was that?”

“I’m not rightly sure myself. There’s something up there, though, kinda like women have in the front, I guess. But harder to reach.” He smiled at John and brushed at his cheek with the back of his hand.

“If that’s how women feel when they finish, no wonder they scream so much. I feel like I died and came back.” His voice still sounded frayed and low, like he hadn’t gotten full control over his throat yet.

Arthur laughed freely at that. “You were screaming, too, sweetheart.”

He half-expected John to protest the pet name, but he just grabbed his drawers off the ground, used them to wipe his stomach, then curled into Arthur’s side.

“I guess we have to go back to camp soon.”

“Yeah, we do.” Arthur scratched at his nose and hugged an arm around John. “Well, you do. Nobody minds when I’m gone.”

“People mind. You’re just allowed to be gone. Special privileges and all that.” He kissed at Arthur’s chest lightly.

Arthur smiled at the jealousy apparent in John’s tone. “You better bring something good back with you, or Grimshaw’ll notice those marks on yer neck and know you’ve just been out whorin’.”

John reached up and fingered at the small bruises forming. “Shit.”

Arthur just chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ve got some cash I can loan you. Just walk back into camp like a good boy, put it in the box, and no one will think twice.” He appraised John’s neck quickly. “And button your shirts all the way up for the next few days.”

John huffed and made like he was going to sit up, but Arthur caught him and held him there. He thought how long it might be before they were like this again. Days weren’t easy to steal, and Dutch was getting antsy. Almost time to move camp. For the briefest sliver of a moment, he was afraid.

“Arthur,” John breathed against his neck, “I was just gonna go fix breakfast.”

He released him, reluctantly, and watched him slip his jeans and shirt back on, hunched over under the low ceiling.

“What are you going to write in that stupid journal while I’m gone?”

Arthur smiled up at him. Just like John to read his mind. “About you, I think.”

“Of fucking course, Morgan, who else?” He pulled on his suspenders with his thumbs and gave Arthur a cocky look. “But what about me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

John pursed his lips and ducked out of the tent. Arthur absently buttoned up his union suit and found his journal safely under his hat in the very corner of the small tent for safekeeping. John must have done that, last night while Arthur was reeling drunk. He felt a warmth in his chest. 

He opened the journal to his picture from the day before. Below it, he wrote in careful cursive:

_McInroy’s Valley with John, Summer_

Outside the tent, he heard John frying meat and cursing. He thought of Dutch and Hosea back at camp, missing their favorite son, with no earthly clue as to what John had spent the morning doing. Delayed guilt hit him in a wave. It always did after John. His pencil paused over the page.

John poked his head back in. “You almost done? Because I was thinking we could go fishin’ before I headed back. By that nice stream a few miles off from camp.”

Arthur smiled weakly and nodded. John disappeared once again. A little below his caption, he scribbled out a few sentences before standing and getting dressed:

 

_I am the biggest idiot I have ever met. I’m liable to jump off a cliff if he asked me to._

_I must hope he will not._


End file.
